


We Write Letters (And Read Their Subtext)

by xxwrote_my_way_outxx



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Andrierre, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Gay, It's A Complicated Russian Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 09:31:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxwrote_my_way_outxx/pseuds/xxwrote_my_way_outxx
Summary: He begged Andrei to respond to his letter as soon as possible. The longer he waited the more paranoid he became. The more paranoid he became the more anxious he developed, and every time someone knocked on the door he felt a mixture of excitement for a letter, but felt the same type of dread for the letter. Who was to say what it was? A love letter? Or would it be an obituary?





	We Write Letters (And Read Their Subtext)

A love letter, a love letter, a love letter, a love letter… 

A love letter was something that Pierre was not used to writing. Oh, but how was he supposed to get to Andrei before he wed himself to a certain Natasha Rostova? 

Dear Andrei…

Gods, he couldn’t even think of the proper way to start a letter such as this. If only he could describe how much he needed him. He needed him more than he needed this war to end. No, he needed this war to end so that he could have Andrei. He must have him or die. Or at least, that was how it felt. He decided to write about his theories on the war and asked his friend how he was doing and how close they were to defeating Napoleon. Pierre wished he could kill the damn man himself, though the real reason he wanted him dead was so that Andrei would come home so he wouldn’t be so alone. Pierre felt vulnerable by himself, and when he was by himself, new theories blossomed and his mind scared him with the reality of the world, and he wanted nothing more than to wake up from these dreams that haunted him. Pierre wrote this letter on his third day of lacking sleep, eyes weary with restlessness and his fingers shaking from low blood sugar. The alcohol satiated him slightly, but he couldn’t keep himself calm enough to eat. 

He begged Andrei to respond to his letter as soon as possible. The longer he waited the more paranoid he became. The more paranoid he became the more anxious he developed, and every time someone knocked on the door he felt a mixture of excitement for a letter, but felt the same type of dread for the letter. Who was to say what it was? A love letter? Or would it be an obituary? 

Pierre saw nothing in the mirror when he placed the candle in front of it desperately, and it only served to make his worries worsen. And everything moved quickly and slowly at the same time, and everything blurred. He was still haunted by the fact he had shot a man in drunken wave and had expected to die, though didn’t. Why couldn’t anything he want ever happen? The least the world could do to pay him for the suffering was to let him die an easy death. He could hardly keep track of every person that came in and out of his house. 

And his rage hit him again and he had the vague memory of hurting his “wife’s” brother, or possibly hurting him? Gods, he couldn’t remember. Everything was a blur. He was so tired. And Andrei didn’t write back. And his life was like a pendulum swinging back and forth tediously. Nothing was in the mirror, only the fire swaying. 

And the knock on the door that he received was one that he didn’t anticipate. It was Andrei, not a love letter, or an obituary. If anything, he looked lost and like he should be on a list of the deceased, for there was no life in his eyes and he slumped against Pierre’s shoulder. 

And the silence between them made his stomach churn worse than the stress of him dying or not knowing the future that he’d be dealt. 

Pierre held him against his shoulder and murmured, “You have a new wrinkle on your forehead, old friend.”

“Please don’t talk to me of that. Is it true what they say?”  
“Say of what?” 

“Natasha..and an Anatole Kuragin, or something of that sort?” 

“…Something of that sort.”

The way that Andrei breathed hopelessly against his shoulder made his heart ache for him and he said, “Natasha is ill.”

“She’s ill…” 

He could nearly heard the scoff that came off of Andrei’s breath and he shook his head and looked up at Pierre, his eyes full of sadness but his face stoic. 

“You could still take her back…you always said that is what a noble man would do.”

“And I am not a noble man.” 

Pierre inhaled deeply, and he could nearly feel the pain that was oozing off of his voice. It made him hurt for him and hurt for the young woman. She was hopelessly in love. At least she got to feel that. So was Andrei. So was Anatole. Everyone loved and received love except for him. 

“And if you were a true friend, you will never speak to me of her again.”

“Of course.” Pierre breathed softly and opened his door further for him, and allowed the Bolkonsky prince to walk inside and take off his jacket, making himself at home as he always did before the war had started. It reminded him of a time when things were much simpler and he was much happier, and he was blinded by his love for his friend and his faith in the good Russian men of Moscow, before the war reaped away anything that he took pride in or made him whole. 

Pierre made his way to sit with Andrei on the loveseat that they used to frequent and bathed in the silence that they shared together, and within that silence they soaked for nearly an hour, simply taking in the company in the most awkward of ways. Pierre was an old, broken man, and Andrei was also old but he was fractured, not broken. He could still be fixed. 

And Andrei took Pierre’s hand in his own and Pierre did not respond, but simply squeezed his hand back, feeling more alive than he did dead, but unable to fully capture the feeling of wholeness that his hand felt when entangled with his friends.  
“I read your letters.”

Andrei’s voice was soft, regaining the friendliness that it lost before at the door. His breathing was still rigid, as if he were breathing for the first time in days. 

“You did?” 

Andrei leaned over and rested his head on Pierre’s shoulder and murmured, “Old friend, you don’t have to ramble in them.” He squeezed his hand tighter, “I may not be as smart and brilliant as you are, but I can still read subtext.” He closed his eyes and started to relax, and Pierre had never seen a man so peacefully unrestful before. 

“What subtext do you see?” Pierre questioned, his throat feeling thick with characteristic nervousness and Andrei shifted to glance up at him and Pierre wasn’t sure if he was being scrutinized or gazed at. 

It was hard to contemplate when he felt Andrei’s lips on his lips, kissing him like real people did. Pierre felt a rush of every variety of emotion that he hypothesized existed, but he couldn’t think in depth. He couldn’t think it through when he also felt the same lips pressing against his jaw and behind his ear in the most gentle way, feeling as if all of the qualms left his head.

And everything wrong and everything felt right. 

“You don’t love me.”

“You love me.” 

Pierre seemed ever more confused. Why was Andrei doing this? If he didn’t love him than what was the point of him doing this? His brain couldn’t seem to process all of the information and he just stared at Andrei like a frightened animal. 

“You love me. I can read between the lines of what you write. And I know it’s not amicable. It is much more than that. I am not stupid, Pierre.” 

Was Andrei simply trying to make a point and humiliate him over this? 

“Yes, I do love you.” Pierre found himself saying, though his heart hurt more than it should, “And just because I love you does not mean that you should take advantage of that because you are sad.” He pinpointed what he felt Andrei was doing and by the face that Andrei’s face contorted he could tell it was partially true, but there was something more to it. “I know that I am not loved. I never have been. My marriage is an obvious marker of that.” 

“You are very loved by me, Pierre. What if I was to tell you that I have loved you for years while we were friends?” He questioned the older man in curiosity, “Would you still turn me away?” He then tilted his head, “I am sad, that is true. Am I not be sad? I loved Natasha, but she was not you. She was a marriage that would satisfy my father, or at least I thought it would. It seems as if it was disappointing for all parties. I may be sad but that does not mean that I do not love you.” 

Pierre felt whole but he also felt as if he were too vulnerable to function. He felt like prey, and hunted, and scared. He wasn’t sure what to make of the concept of love, and he didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. Was he supposed to be elated and terrified at the same time.

“You have been sad for a long time, Pierre. How do you know if you love me if you are also sad?”

“Because I have never loved anyone as such before and never will again, Andrei.” 

“Then why will you not have me?” 

“I will have you when I am sober and you are recovered. I will have you when we can both rationalize this, and both feel something that does not make us want to drink more but to be satiated. I want to feel love in its purest form, and I would love nothing more. But let us heal first. And then we can love each other the way that lovers should.” 

And Andrei nodded and breathed in Pierre for a moment before returning to their mutual silence, resting on his shoulder with Pierre’s arm wrapped around his waist and held him close, feeling the time stabilize. The candle in the mirror on the table in front of them only reflected them on the couch together, and Pierre had never been more satiated in his life.


End file.
